November 7, 2015

★☆✮✯Blog Tour & Review★☆✮✯ The Play by Karina Halle

A vivacious man-eater who's given up on
love. When it comes to Lachlan and Kayla,
opposites don't just attract - they explode.

Kayla Moore has always been comfortable
with her feisty, maneating reputation. At least it was fine until she hit her
thirties and saw her best friends Stephanie and Nicola settle down with Linden
and Bram McGregor, leaving Kayla to be the odd one out. Tired of being the
third wheel with nothing but one-night stands and dead-end dates in San
Francisco, Kayla decides to take a vow of celibacy and put men on the
backburner.

That is until she lays her eyes on Linden
and Bram’s cousin, hot Scot Lachlan McGregor. Lachlan is her sexual fantasy
come to life – tall, tatted, and built like a Mack truck. With a steely gaze
and successful rugby career back in Edinburgh, he’s the kind of man that makes
her want to throw her vow right out the window. But Lachlan’s quiet and intense
demeanor makes him a hard man to get to know, let alone get close to.

It isn’t until the two of them are thrown
together one long, unforgettable night that Kayla realizes there is so much
more to this brooding macho man than what meets the eye. But even with sparks
flying between the two, Lachlan can’t stay in America forever. Now, Kayla has
to decide whether to uproot her whole life and chance it all on someone she
barely knows or risk getting burned once again.

*Because
The Play revolves around a hot as sin Scottish rugby player who also rescues
dogs, Karina Halle is donating $1 from every pre-order sale (that's half of her
preorder profits) to select animal charities, including Best Friends Animal
Society and reader chosen ones that help promote adoption and rescues for
animals. If you know of a deserving animal charity that needs attention and her
donations, please let Karina know by emailing her with the headline Save
the Puppies toAuthorkarinahalle@gmail.com. Hopefully enough
money will be raised to make a difference in the animal's lives. Every preorder
counts!

“Get
a fucking hold of yourself,” I say out loud and crane my neck to look up at the
floor-to-ceiling windows of Lachlan’s apartment building, trying to count
floors and see which one is his. I anxiously open my compact and dot more lip
stain on my lips, wondering how fast it will be rubbed off once I get into his
apartment.

Is
he going to kiss me right away?

Will
this be a Netflix and chill night?

Immediate
fucking?

The
possibilities have me on edge.

With
a deep breath, I get out of the car and walk over to the entrance. My finger
hovers at the apartment number. I take a moment to eye myself in the reflection
of the glass doors. I had sped home to change into a strappy black dress,
something like the nightgown-trend of the 90’s, with hot pink platform heels.
No bra. No underwear. What’s the point?

“Hi,”
I say. I’m about to say something else, probably something awkward but he
immediately buzzes me through. I exhale loudly, trying to release tension and
remain a fidgety mess all the way up the elevator. Last time I was in here,
we’d just rescued the dogs. He was shirtless. He’d felt so close at that time
and yet oh so far away. To think now, now, I’d had my hands and lips all over
him and my need for him was stronger than ever before.

I
knock on his door, biting my lip in anticipation, until it swings open and I
see Lachlan, leaning casually against it. The dulcet tones of Fiona Apple’s
“Slow like Honey” drift in from the room.

“You
shouldn’t be wearing that,” he says, a faint smile on his lips. God, I’ve
missed those lips.

“Why
not?” I ask with a raise of my brow. In a second, all my nerves smooth out and
I realize how easy it is to talk with him like this.

“You’ll
make it impossible to get through the appetizer,” he answers, moving back and
letting me inside. He’s back to casual gear, a white thermal shirt that’s
partially unbuttoned, just enough to show a glimpse of tanned skin, chest hair
and tattoos, a necklace with a small wooden cross, green cargo pants. I like him
like this just as much as I like him in a suit.

I
walk in, my heels echoing on the tiles. “I thought I was the appetizer,” I tell
him, looking around. The two dogs are on the couch, curled up into each other
like sleeping mice. In unison, they both lift their heads to stare at me. The
pitbull gives a thump of its tail but the scruffy mutt shivers slightly,
showing teeth.

“Don’t
mind them, they’re still adjusting,” he says, closing the door and then
gesturing to the table by the kitchen, where I had done my interview with him
last week. “That’s the appetizer.”

On
the table is a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a cheeseboard topped with
brie, cheddar, camembert, figs, jam, honey and crostini. “Wow,” I say softly.
“You did all this?”

He
shrugs, making a dismissive noise. “It was nothing.”

“This
is romantic,” I tell him. “I didn’t peg you for a romantic.”

He
raises a perfectly arched brow. “Oh yeah? What did you peg me for?” He slowly
pours a glass of wine.

I
just stand there, watching him pour a smaller amount into the other glass. His
forearm flexes, the lion tattoo seems to roar. His forehead is creased with
concentration, perhaps anticipation of my reply. He seems completely at ease
with me but there’s always that wildness in his eyes that never seems to go
away. The only time I saw peace in them was after he came last night.

“I
pegged you for a man who wouldn’t give me a second glance.”

He
gives me a crooked smile and corks the bottle “Well, love, you know that isn’t
true.”

I
slowly walk toward him, looking up through my lashes like some femme fatale.
“Oh, it was true. You wanted nothing to do with me.”

His
look softens for a moment before he heads over into the kitchen, grabbing small
plates from the glass cupboards. “I want nothing to do with most people. Never
take it personal.”

“Tell
that to Old Kayla. She had no idea she’d get the chance to put your gorgeous
cock in her mouth.”

The
plates rattle against the counter. “You do have some mouth on you.”

“Exactly.”

He
comes back in the room with his hulking swagger, putting the plates down. He
nods at the seat pushed out. “Here, sit down. Please.”

I
hook my purse on the corner of the chair and take a seat. Both dogs stare at me
from the couch.

“So
how are they?” I ask him.

He
looks behind him and I take a moment to appreciate every hardened, strained
muscle on his neck and shoulders. “As I said, adjusting.” He sits down and
folds his hands in front of him. “Someone is coming by tomorrow to see about
adopting Ed. But I think Emily will be coming home with me.”

“Which
one is Ed?”

“The
pit,” he says.

“Funny,
I would have thought he would have been harder to find a home for.”

“Usually.
But Ed is a big sweetie and people in this city are a little more tolerant of
bully breeds than people in the UK. Emily, however, as sweet as she looks,” he
glances back at the scruffy dog, who immediately bares her teeth to me, “has
behaviour problems. She’ll need work.”

“And
are you the one who teaches them?” I ask. “Because if so, then you are the dog
whisperer, which means there’s pretty much nothing you can’t do.”

He
looks down at his hands and gives a lazy one-shouldered shrug. “I found Lionel
on the streets in Edinburgh. I was able to teach him. Maybe he taught me some
things, you never know with dogs. But…it takes a special kind of person to
train dogs, especially those who have been through trauma and abuse. I am not
that kind of person. I will do whatever I can to save them but I’m not the
person who can school them on obedience.”

“Really?”

A
quiet, almost uncomfortable smile tugs on his lips. “A dog with behavioural
problems shouldn’t learn from someone with behavioural problems.”

I
expect him to laugh but he doesn’t. “Oh,” I say, trying to think of the right
thing. “You just seem like a natural. These two were strays and now look at
them. Just like that.”

“I
can get the dogs to trust me,” he says in a low voice. “Because I trust them.
But I can’t get them to trust others.”

“Because
you don’t trust people…”

He
slowly blinks and then reaches for the stem of his wine glass. “I think I may
trust you. Here’s to that.”

“Here’s
to that,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against his. I’m more than
meeting him the eyes, I’m diving in the green and grey. They seem darker
somehow, moving shadows. Depthless. Behavioural problems? What kind? How much
more can I learn about him before he’s gone?

I
take a gulp of my wine. He barely touches his. Just a small sip, then puts the
glass back down and pushes it away from him.

“I’ve
never seen you drink much,” I tell him, hoping my tone is easy enough so he
won’t take offense.

He
gives me a long, measured look before he licks his lips and looks away. “No, I
don’t.”

“Because
of training,” I say, giving him an easy way out.

A
slow nod. “Yes.”

He’s
still not meeting my eyes, his focus on the cheeseboard and even though he’s
not frowning like he usually his, his shoulders seem tense.

“What
other things do you have to do for training?” I ask. I feel we’ve regressed a
little bit and I want that sexy, casual banter back.

He
drums his fingers along the edge of the table and I lean forward, trying to get
some cheese on my plate. “Lot of work in the gym. Lot of work in the field. A
good diet.”

“I
assume it doesn’t include loads of cheese,” I tell him, drizzling the honey on
top of my brie.

“Nah,
just boring stuff. Chicken breasts, broccoli. It’s not a lot of fun but at my
age, you have to do it if you want to keep playing. When I was younger I could
have eaten whatever I wanted.”

“How
old are you?” I ask.

“Thirty-two,”
he says and I’m a little bit surprised. I guess because he looks so manly and
distinguished – the lines on his forehead, his scruffy beard – I pegged him for
someone in his mid-to-late thirties. Or maybe it’s his eyes.

I
stare at them, even though they are now staring sharply at the fig as he hacks
his way into it, as if the fig had done something personal to him. It’s those
eyes that trip me up. The eyes of an old soul, of someone who has seen too
much, done too much. There’s a war behind them at all times, a war I want to
help him win.

“Does
that surprise you?” he asks, glancing up at me briefly.

I
take a delicate bite of the crostini. “Not really. You just seem more mature
than that.”

He
spreads the fig over goat cheese. “In rugby, being in your thirties is asking
for trouble. All these years of being hit, all the injuries, the strain. It
takes a toll. I don’t know what happened, but when I turned thirty it all
started to slip, just a bit.” He offers me the fig and I take it from his
hands, my fingers brushing against his. One simple touch and I feel it travel
down the length of my arm, straight to my heart.

Bam.
A shower of sparks.

I
swallow, trying to ignore the feeling. “How long have you been playing for?”

“I
guess,” he says, pursing his lips, considering. “I’m good at what I do. They
need someone fast and someone who will break everyone in their way. That’s my
job. But I can’t do it forever. After I fucked up my bloody tendon…I know I
don’t have long.”

“You
almost make it seem like you’re dying.”

He
briefly sucks in his cheeks. “Rugby saved my life. I’m not sure what I’ll do
when it’s over.”

“Coach?”
I ask him hopefully.

“Nah,”
he says, munching on the crostini and leaning back in the chair. When he
swallows, he adds, “I’m either in the game, or I’m not. There is no halfway.
That’s not how I’m built. Once I’m done, I’m done.”

And
when this is over? I think. Are we done?

But
of course we are…we aren’t even a thing.

“Maybe
you’ll just do the charity work…for the dogs.”

“Aye,”
he says. He reaches for his wine and takes a small sip. He almost puts it back
down, then takes another gulp, finishing the glass. “I’ll keep doing that.
There’s no expiration on helping others. As bloody cheesy as that sounds.”

I
point to his forearm. “There. Lion. See. You said you would tell me some
stories. About your tattoos. Why you have them.”

He
rakes his teeth over his lower lip and looks me dead in the eye. “Did I now?”

“Yes,”
I tell him impatiently. “Last night…maybe this morning. After some good
fucking.”

“Ah,
yes. That explains it.”

“Well
give me something.”

“If
I give you something, will you give me something?”

I
can’t help but grin like a fool. “Of course.”

“Okay
then.” He pushes his chair back slightly and takes his shirt off, tossing it on
the floor beside him. He spreads his legs and pats the crotch of his pants, his
gaze absolutely feral. “Have a seat.”

I
am light-headed at the sight of his torso again. I manage to get up, drawn to
him like a magnet. I put my hands on the hard breadth of his shoulders and
straddle him. We are so close. Our mouths inches away.

I
lean back to get a better look at him, even though the distance pulls at me. I
run my fingers over his shoulder, taught, hard muscle. A storm rages in muted
ink, an old ship with tall sails is masterfully shaded, spreading onto his
chest.

“This
one,” I say softly. “Why the storm? Why the ship?”

He
chews on his lip for a moment, searching my eyes. “I was twenty-four. I
backpeddled with life for a bit. I lost my edge in the game. But I pushed
through and was better for it. A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not what
ships are built for.” He tilts his head, as if observing me, though I’m the one
watching him. “It helps me when I get scared. To keep going.”

“You
get scared?” I ask him, unable to picture him, this strong, powerful man,
afraid of anything at all.

“All
the time,” he says frankly. “How can life be anything except terrifying at
times? We’re born here. We don’t ask for it. And we’re expected to somehow get
through it, living each day without dying. We either live and if we don’t, we
die.” He looks away, gives his head a shake. “Nah. We’re all scared, every last
one of us.”

I
know I am. Of so many things. My heart melts slightly to know that someone like
him could feel the same way as someone like me.

I
trail my fingers along the text on his collarbone. “Nunquam iterum,” I read
out. “Latin, I assume?”

“Yes,”
he says slowly, looking away. “It means never again.”

“Never
again, what?”

His
mouth quirks up into a sour smile. “Never again to a lot of things.”

I
breathe in deeply through my nose and look over every inch of him. The lion.
Words across his side “Hope before Death.” A paw print in his inner arm. A
flock of ravens swirling into a tribal pattern down one bicep, making a sleeve.
A crest with what looks like Latin on the other forearm. Another similar crest
on his chest. I press on the one on his chest, with a boar at the centre.
“Corda. Serrata. Pando,” I say, my finger tracing the words.

“I
open locked hearts,” he says.

I
still, watching him close. “What?”

“I
open locked hearts,” he repeats. “It’s the Lockhart crest. I was born a
Lockhart. That is the clan’s motto.”

“Again,
that’s terribly romantic,” I tell him. “That must be where you get it from.” I
touch his forearm, the other crest. “And I guess this is McGregor?”

“Aye,
though it should be MacGregor, or Clan Gregor.”

“'S
rioghal mo dhream,” I try to say but stumble over it. “What the hell.”

“Royal
is my race,” he translates. He gives me a dry smile. “However, it’s not my
race. So that explains a lot.”

I
run my hand down the side of his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes. “I think
I’d rather you a romantic warrior than one with fussy bloodlines.”

He
leans in, slowly opening his eyes, gazing at me through his lashes. “Who said I
was a warrior?”

I
lower my voice. “I say you’re a warrior.”

You’re
my warrior.

For
now.

He
lifts his chin. “What else do you say?”

I
adjust myself on his hips, my hand slipping down toward his pants. I shift to
undo the top button, bracing myself on his shoulder. “I say you need to get
your cock out, warrior.”

He
reaches out and lets his hands drift down over my hair. “Lead you into battle?”

“Something
like that.” I bite my lip as I tug down his zipper.

I initially started out with a long review and I
scrapped it. There is so much I want to
say about this book, but it all comes down to…READ IT.
Simply put, READ IT. Karina pulls
subjects that are near and dear to my heart into Lachlan and Kayla’s story, and
she had me from the beginning with the prologue.

Lachlan had a rough start to his life, and growing up
feeling cast aside, it’s easy to see why he relates to strays, and does what he
can to rescue these dogs that have, too, been cast aside. He is brooding, dark, misunderstood, and he
holds onto things from the past that he needs to let go of.

As a professional rugby player from Edinburgh,
Scotland, he agrees to be the subject of an article that Kayla Moore is writing
to shed some light on his cousin Bram’s charitable work highlighting the
unaffordable housing crisis in San Fransisco.

Kayla is misunderstood, I think. She’s
the only one of her friends that isn’t settled down and may be a little bit of
a man eater and stuck in a job that she is not passionate about. By agreeing to help Bram by writing an
article for the Bay View Weekly, that highlights his charitable work for the housing
crisis in San Fran, she sets a warped speed relationship with Lachlan in
motion.

These two’s chemistry is insane. Hot, passionate, explosive. Lachlan fighting demons that no one understands,
and Kayla being misunderstood as well, these two fit perfectly together. She’s the light to his darkness, and he is
the strength to her weaknesses.

When I first saw that Karina was writing a story for
Lachlan, I have to admit, I was a little nervous. Only because I was not sure how she was going
to top the previous McGregors, Linden and Bram.
Let me tell you, she did it. This
book was everything. It was all I have
come to expect from a Karina Halle novel, and more. I felt connected to Lachlan and Kayla and
their personal struggles. I giggled a
little, cried a lot, and dang it was steamy.

Thank you, Karina, for sharing your heart with
us. When you put in elements of your own
life that you, too, are passionate about, the message rings loud and
clear. These words on the pages are more
than just a story that needed to be told, and these two will be in my heart
forever.

With her USA Today Bestselling The Artists Trilogy published by
Grand Central Publishing, numerous foreign publication deals, and
self-publishing success with her Experiment in Terror series, Vancouver-born
Karina Halle is a true example of the term "Hybrid Author." Though
her books showcase her love of all things dark, sexy and edgy, she's a closet
romantic at heart and strives to give her characters a HEA...whenever possible.

Karina holds a screenwriting degree from Vancouver Film School and a Bachelor
of Journalism from TRU. Her travel writing, music reviews/interviews and
photography have appeared in publications such as Consequence of Sound, Mxdwn
and GoNomad Travel Guides. She currently lives on an island on the coast of
British Columbia where she’s preparing for the zombie apocalypse with her
fiancé and rescue pup.